A Christmas Miracle

by Marilyn Knowles Wilke

Christmas morning was near and most people were busy with the hustle and bustle of shopping and decorating. It was different for Jonathan. He gazed out the window of the old broken-down orphanage that everyone seemed to have forgotten.

The orphanage was located at the end of their small town in Colorado. The woman who ran the place was heartless and cruel. It was like a forgotten place as far as the children were concerned. No one seemed to care.

Jonathan was thirteen and had given up hope of ever having a family. He tried to stay positive, remembering his sweet mother raised him to have faith. She died at the hands of his father when he was five. He cherished her memory, but hated his father who was in prison for life.

His mother loved church and always prayed and read the Bible to him. He even remembered some of the verses she taught him, but now, he blamed God for everything. In the back of his mind, he wanted to believe God cared, but looking at his tortured life, it was difficult to believe in anything. Still, he held onto a fragment of faith in his mother.

“Get to breakfast!” Miss Kale's scratchy voice interrupted his thoughts. He knew if he didn't move quickly, she would beat him until he couldn't.

Breakfast was always the same. The cook served them a bowl of corn mush and a cup of water. All eighteen kids would leave the dining area hungry. Then, she sent them out into the cold to beg for money. The town had a lot of rich folks in it, but none of them seemed to really care. Sure, they would drop a few pennies in the orphan's cups, but nothing more.

Jonathan stood on his usual corner, shivering. It was getting colder and the snow began to fall more profusely. He tried to pull his tattered coat around him, but it barely kept the snow from hitting his chest. He wanted to cry, but decided it was time to run away. He looked around to see if anyone was watching. He knew Miss Kale would send her sons to check up on him any minute. He slipped into a dark alley and sat there for a moment, pulling boxes around him to keep warm and hidden.

As he watched her sons appear through a small hole in the box, he smiled to himself. He knew they wouldn't look for long, not in the cold. Several of the orphans were already sick and still in bed from the cold. They would probably die like always. No one cared.

He felt a warmth come over him and a voice was heard that sounded vaguely familiar. It was his mother. He tried to shake it off, thinking he was only hallucinating due to hunger. The voice continued to speak his name. He finally spoke, “Mother?”

He passed out, feeling someone lifting his frail body. He thought he was dreaming. His dream turned into something else. It felt like maybe he had died and was being taken to another place. He remembered his mother describing Heaven, hoping God would forgive him for losing his faith.

He awoke to the smells of muffins and butter. As he tried to raise his head, there was music playing like a symphony. He opened his eyes and sat up. It was the most beautiful place he'd ever seen. His eyes met another beauty standing before him. She reminded him of his mother, but she was much older.

“Well, dear boy, you finally join the living,” She brushed his hair from his face with her soft hand. He could smell her perfume. It was like fruits and flowers mixed together. He liked it very much.

“Where am I, Miss?” He Spoke softly and politely.

“Alive and lying in our spare bed. She smiled, handing him the nicest clothing he'd ever seen. “You wouldn't have been breathing if Master Gordon and I hadn't found you, love.”

“It was you?” He smiled.

“Yes, dear,” Her accent complimented her voice. It made him smile. “Well, get dressed, me boy, and we'll have a nice, big breakfast. Does that sound good?”

“Oh, yes-mam,” He grinned, widely. He jumped to his feet, but fell backwards. She steadied him and sent in a woman who looked to be the maid of the house. She was cheery and kind. She helped him dress and walked him downstairs. He realized that he'd been bathed, which made him blush. “Um...how did I..”

She interrupted him. “Don't ye worry, lad,” She patted his head. “It ‘twas the doctor and nurse who took care of you. You been out for a few days.”

He was shocked to find out this bit of information. He now knew why he was so weak. He spotted the dining table, all covered with foods he hardly remembered. A picture of his mother serving him eggs and ham came to his mind, but this was much more elaborate.

He gazed at the man sitting at the head of the table. He'd seen him before on the streets. This was the only man who had given him more than a penny. He feared that they had contacted Miss Kale and began to shiver.

“Are ye cold, lad?” Master Gordon asked, kindly, touching his shoulder. “Lad?”

“My name is Jonathon, sir,” He informed. “I suppose I will be leaving soon.”

He knew he was being bold, but wanted to prepare himself for the worst. Master Gordon stood up, helping him into his chair. “You eat and enjoy! You're not going anywhere.”

He was surprised by his reply, but waited for the explanation. They all joined hands and prayed a sweet blessing over the food. He stared from one to another, wondering what he should say next.

After he had filled his stomach with all the wonderful foods, he sat back, waiting for their conversations to stop so he could speak. He finally started to open his mouth to talk, but was interrupted by the pretty lady. Her name was found to be Sarah.

“You have nothing to fear from that animal anymore,” She smiled. “None of the children do. They've all been placed in homes for the holidays and the sick children are in the hospital being taken care of. Miss Kale is in jail where she belongs along with her two sons.”

“You are serious, Miss?” He choked on his orange juice for a moment. He wanted to shout a loud praise to God, but he held it in while she continued to explain.

“When we found you in this horrible state, we notified the authorities and several of our friends,” She went on. “We're all ashamed of ourselves for allowing this to go on. It is this town's fault that all of you were so badly neglected; therefore, it is our duty to make it right. We have decided to adopt you, if that's all right with you.”

He felt as if he would faint. It was quite a shock to wake up to such a miracle. He felt like he owed God an apology and whispered one to himself. They all stared at him, wondering why he was saying he was sorry, but he smiled and began to explain.

The couple explained to him how they ended up in that alley. They thought they were hearing a familiar voice crying out someone's name. Jonathan's eyes widened as they continued to tell their story.

They had lost their daughter when she ran away with some crazy man she thought she loved. He had murdered her, telling the police that his wife had no known relatives and gave them a false last name. They didn't discover this until one of their friends came across an old newspaper showing a faded picture on the front. It was discovered while they were vacationing in another town miles away. It was where Jonathan was born.

As they spoke, Jonathan was about to bust, wanting to tell them who he was, but to his surprise, they had already figured it out from his records at the orphanage. They knew God had given them all a miracle for Christmas. Jonathan and his new family would always remember this Christmas morning, for it was the season of a miracle.

Now, even though she was much older than his mother, he knew why she was so beautiful to him. Her age didn't hinder her beautiful face, nor did her riches hinder her lovely heart. Jonathan not only renewed his faith in God, but realized that it was always there, just hidden by pain. He would spend many Christmas mornings with his family and stayed in touch with his many orphanage friends who now resided in homes of their own.  

A Crescendo of Joy

By Flora Crump

My grandfather, Golden Webb, was a skilled musician who could play almost anything anyone requested on his violin or old upright piano. When he purchased an organ, there wasn't room in his small home for two large instruments, so my mother inherited the piano. I was 10 or 11 years old when it was transported 25 miles from Salt Lake City to Riverton.

Since its style wasn't as fashionable in the '50s as it had been in the '20s, my mother had the piano reduced in size, remodeled and refinished. On this piano, I learned the real joys of music. I discovered that each little note positioned on a music staff also represented a position on the keyboard, and when my fingers stroked the correct combination of keys, a beautiful sound would come forth. Even if it was with only one finger at first, I could now play my favorite tunes or make up my own. I played simple duets with my mother and sisters, and mother taught us to sing in parts like she could.

A few years later, the piano was moved a second time, this time into the basement of the wonderful new home my dad was building just a few yards from our present one. The job of moving it must have been even easier since the piano was now much smaller and the house didn't have a top on it yet. My dad and a few men lowered the piano into the room that was to become the family room. It became the first piece of furniture in our new home.

It sat faithfully in its place for many years and participated quite actively in the musical education of six children. And it quietly watched as each one grew up and eventually moved away. While it sat lonely and a little neglected, it apparently gained some weight.

Years later when my mother asked if I would like the piano in my own home, I was overjoyed. Not only had that piano belonged to my beloved grandparents, but it was the source of so many memories. Now my own children could make the same wonderful discoveries I did.

My enthusiasm was matched with blank looks and shrugged shoulders, definite gestures of indifference. What a disappointment. But because they were such good boys and they loved me, my husband and sons halfheartedly examined the possibilities of getting the piano up my parents' basement stairs and into our home. Their unanimous conclusion was that it was too heavy; the stairs would never hold the weight; and the door was too narrow to fit it through. I wasn't convinced. I committed to pay a professional piano mover to do the job.

I called a local company, and the representative expressed great confidence. Not only did they have all the right equipment, but they had never met a piano they couldn't move. They couldn't do it. Their two young he-men movers could hardly roll the piano across the floor toward the stairs, let alone up the stairs.

My parents dismantled it as much as possible. They took off the front legs, removed the mirrored top and stripped off the front panel that covered all its inner workings. It stood there shivering like a skeleton with its bony ribs and stringy tendons shamelessly exposed.

I wanted a second opinion. We called another piano mover and again explained the situation, adding that a previous company had failed. They were even more assuring than the last. With the most efficient equipment and the most capable crew, they could move anything in any situation. And indeed, they did! Four of the friendliest and largest men I had ever seen huffed and puffed, sweated and strained and got that piano up three stairs.

When the stairs creaked, they froze. They rolled the piano back down and said they didn't dare go any farther. The old wooden stairs would collapse long before the piano reached the top. They apologized and went home.

I was now convinced that Grandpa's piano was destined to remain on the lower level of my parents' home forever. A year went by.

As Christmas of 1993 was approaching, and everyone started tossing around little hints about what they would like for Christmas, I joined the game. My request was for a new or used piano. Little did I realize that someone was really listening and planning. On Christmas Eve morning, I left the house to tie up my usual last-minute "loose ends."

I assured everyone that I would be home early in the afternoon so we could all be together to enjoy Christmas Eve.

The minute the door closed behind me, my husband, Sam, and three sons took action. They would get Grandpa's piano out of my parents' home and into ours as a Christmas surprise for me. The task would be accomplished long before I got home in the afternoon.

My dad had reinforced the basement stairs and had invented a roller apparatus to help hoist the piano up one step at a time. They wedged a come-along, which is a hand-operated winch, on boards against the outside door frames. They wrapped the piano with wide straps that they attached to a cable and to the come-along. The piano had to be tipped sideways in order to get it up the stairwell and out two doors.

Two hours passed as the piano moved, inch by inch, up the stairs. They called a nephew and a brother-in-law to help. If either the cable or wooden wedge holding the come-along were to break, the piano would go crashing back down the stairs and take the men with it. When it got hopelessly hung up at the top stair and door frame, my brother-in-law got under the piano and lifted it, Jean Val Jean style, with his back while the others worked to free it. After almost three hours, the piano rested at the top of the stairs. Another hour and it was home.

I drove in just as the piano was exiting the pickup truck on big planks and entering my front door. My arrival home before the piano was completely settled didn't spoil the surprise. I was there to see six tired, happy men complete what had been an impossible task until this day. And they were there to see tears spilling down my cheeks and my head nodding in disbelief.

Despite what they had been through, and the danger to which they had been exposed, they were all very jolly as the spins of this accomplishment floated around and through everyone and came to rest in our hearts. I watched my husband express genuine thanks to our dear family members for their valuable help, and I realized that three little families had given up almost a whole day without their husbands and fathers to make a Christmas miracle happen for me.

For weeks, I couldn't sit down to that piano without weeping with joy realizing that it was finally in my home and how it got there. And now as another generation of children has almost emptied my nest and I find myself alone more often, my piano is my cushion, my company, my outlet for expression. I have often reflected as I lovingly stroke its keys or dust its bruised and scarred surface just how much Grandpa Webb participated in turning what was an impossible task into a memorable Christmas miracle. 

 

The Little Red Buckets 

By Lynda M. Nelson

A very poor couple moved into a small tarpaper shack up the hill from our farm when I was just eight years old. They were nice old people, Mr. And Mrs. Nie, and they’d seen a lot of hard times. Mr. Nie was a very hard worker, but his luck just seemed to run to the bad side, Well, my father and mother, being true Christians, took it upon themselves to help the Nies.

Though Mr. Nie was too old to do heavy work anymore, it didn’t take Father long to discover that he was still a skilled leather craftsman and wood carver so Father found odd jobs he could hire Mr. Nie to do.

The day after father hired Mr. Nie, Mother loaded two little red lard buckets full of extra food she had and sent me up the hill to deliver the food to the old folks. The Nies had moved into the old sheepherder’s cottage just where the hill topped out and the road crossed the creek bed.

I wasn’t too excited about trekking up that mountain road. I went though, and thereafter it was my duty every day to take two red buckets full of food to the Nie home.

Each year on December 23rd, Mother would get out all the red pails she had saved and fill them with the special treats she always made at Christmas. Then early on the morning of Christmas Eve day, my whole family, Mother, Father, Ralph, Zella, and I, would squeeze into our little red and black sleigh and ride around to the homes of our few neighbors. It usually took us an hour of riding in the creaky old sleigh to get between houses. We froze, but it was fun anyway.

At each house, our nearly frozen family would climb out of the sleigh and sing Christmas carols at the door of the home while our teeth chattered and our knees wobbled. By the time we could feel the blood flowing back into our feet and hands the front door would be open and a cheerful family would invite us inside for a warm drink.

It was almost full dark when we drove up the hill to sing carols to old Mr. And Mrs. Nie. Old Mr. Nie opened the door and stepped outside. We children tumbled off of the sleigh and joined up in our chorus line, in a hurry to be done and on our way.

Old Mrs. Nie came out of the house and joined her husband to listen to us sing. When we were done, Mother and Father handed buckets full of goodies with new socks hidden in the bottom to Mrs. Nie. She took them and simply said “Thank you.” Then she said, “Wait.”

She turned and hobbled quickly into the house. When she came out, she carried a box in her hand. You could have knocked me over with a feather when she handed me the little box.

In a voice choked with emotion, she said, “My mum gave this to me. She’s real special to me and I want you should have her. You’n’ your red buckets have brung Christmas up the hill to us ever’ day. Thank ya, Jenny.”

That night while Father finished reading the Christmas story, I climbed into my mother’s lap and sat and carefully opened the little wooden box.

I was so disappointed when I lifted the lid, because it looked as though the box was only filled with dingy, matted cotton. But Mother gently pinched the cotton between her fingers and carefully lifted it up. There inside, nestled among the matted cotton bed, was a very delicate, very beautiful figure of an angel. She was wrought from purest crystal and seemed to gather all the light in the room within her tiny form. Gently I lifted her from the box. Her wings were wispy feathers of sparkling crystal, rising delicately on either side of her body as though fanning the heavenly air. Her glimmering dress swept back, and then swirled around to her right side. As I turned her back and forth, she caught and reflected a myriad of sparkling lights. Stunned with awe, I held the angel up to show my mother, only to find tears overflowing from her eyes.

Father paused in his reading and turned to Matthew to read about the Wise Men. “And when they were come into the house, they saw the young child with Mary his mother, and fell down, and worshiped him: and when they had opened their treasures, they presented unto him gifts; gold, and frankincense, and myrrh.” 

My mother’s eyes were sparkling with tears and her voice wavered a bit when she whispered, “Jenny, this is a treasure both precious and rare. Mrs. Nie has given you her finest possession. Always cherish it, my little Jenny, and remember why she gave this to you.”

One day, Mrs. Nie invited me in and told me I reminded her of her daughter who died just after she turned ten years old. It was such a sad story that I didn’t know what to say, except that I was sorry. When I left she smiled at me, and thanked me for coming.

I asked Mrs. Nie about the angel. She told me the crystal angel had been part of her family for three generations, passed from mother to daughter. The legend said that a guardian spirit followed the angel, but Mrs. Nie didn’t believe the legend when her mother gave her the angel, but after her daughter, Emily died, she was sad. She said, “Several days after we buried Emily I knelt beside her bed, begging God to tell my why my little girl had been taken away. I pulled open the drawer of Emily’s nightstand to get out a handkerchief to wipe my tears. There was the little crystal angel I had given to Emily only weeks before. Ever so gently, I lifted her up and held her to the light. A bright shaft of sunlight beamed through her and the most beautiful ethereal glow filled my hands and my heart as a heavenly light radiated through her and into me. I felt the presence of my guardian angel. Then, as now, I believed my guardian angel was my dear, sweet Emily, staying close to watch over me.”

My heart was racing when I left Mrs. Nie’s house that afternoon. I raced to look at the angel, but nothing happened.

In the spring of 1918, my brother Ralph announced that he was going off to fight in the Great War. I remember so well his red hair and freckles and serious blue eyes as he announced his decision from the kitchen doorway. For the next two days, Mother and Father tried everything they could to change his mind, but no amount of begging had any effect on Ralph. He loved his country and felt a strong desire to do his patriotic duty, so off he went to war.

One August day a man in uniform came and handed our father a yellow envelope. Ralph was dead. Mother was devastated. We all felt his loss keenly, but she took his death harder than the rest of us. The army sent Ralph home to us in a sealed casket. We buried him in the family plot.

I told Mrs. Nie all about Ralph, shared with her all my memories of him. She knew how it helped me to talk. I told her how his red hair would shine in the sunshine and look like fire sometimes, and how his blue eyes would flash in anger or twinkle with humor. I cried when I told her how much we loved him and missed him.

Well, somewhere around the middle of October, Mrs. Nie caught a real, bad cold. She was laid up in bed for a couple of weeks. During that time, I didn’t get to take the little red buckets full of food up to her house. Instead, my mother would go up there a couple of times a day with medicine and all sorts of things to try to get Mrs. Nie better. I was ecstatic when Mama told me I could start taking the little red buckets back up to Mrs. Nie again.

Mrs. Nie coughed a lot after that but in between her coughing spells, we still talked a lot and we decided we’d make my mother a wonderful Christmas present. She called her husband in and we discussed our idea with him and he eagerly agreed to help. Even though Mrs. Nie was sick, she worked hard with Mr. Nie and me to finish the Christmas present on time and we finished it three days before Christmas.

Christmas Eve morning a bad snowstorm hit. I stewed and fretted all day. How was I going to get our present down here to give to Mother tomorrow for Christmas? The storm just got worse and worse. It was the longest day of my life! I knew we could give Mother our present after the snowstorm cleared, but somehow it just wouldn’t be the same.

Suddenly, there was a loud knock on the kitchen door. We all lunged to our feet and rushed into the kitchen. Zella reached the door first and threw it open wide. The tattered hood on a ghostly, snow-covered figure was thrown back revealing the smiling face of Mrs. Nie. We were so shocked; no one could say a word.

Mother finally stepped forward to take her coat and gloves. I walked right up next to Mrs. Nie and wrapped my arms around her slender waist, hugging her tight. There wasn’t anyone I wanted to see more tonight and I saw right off that she was carrying a large bundle. My heart leaped in my chest, I was so happy and excited.

She asked if Father would read the Christmas story again for her. As he did each word seamed to fill my heart fuller and fuller, ’til I thought I could hear no more. My eyes moved slowly from the bundle to Mrs. Nie, to my mother, to Zella, to my father, to the angel on the mantle. Slowly and deliberately my father read the final words, “And when they had opened their treasures, they presented unto him gifts, gold, and frankincense, and myrrh.”

Never had the Christmas story touched my heart with such force. I looked into Mrs. Nie’s eyes and saw a glow of such love and happiness that my heart nearly overflowed within me. I watched in amazement as Mrs. Nie carefully placed our gift in my mother’s hands. “Merry Christmas, Charlotte, from Mr. Nie, and Jenny and me.” It was a chest fashioned of finest cedar. With exquisite care, Mr. Nie had carved an oval frame into each panel of the chest. Within each oval frame were two little red buckets, one bucket standing, the other laying on its side. They were painted the same color red as the little lard buckets Mother filled and I carried to Mrs. Nie’s house each day. Golden mountain oak leaves were carved beneath the oval frame, adding gracefully lines to the beauty of the box. Each corner of the lid and the bottom of the box was protected by brass corner brackets, molded to fit the wood and carefully nailed in place. The elegance of Mr. Nie’s skill and craftsmanship was evident in every line of Ma’s box.

As tears filled my mother’s eyes, Mrs. Nie spoke gently, her voice filled with love and compassion. “This is your hope chest, Charlotte. Mr. Nie carved the buckets into the sides of the chest and Jenny painted them. They are to always remind you of the many little red buckets that your family have filled and sent up the hill to us. Your love and kindness and generosity meant even more to us than the food. They gave us the faith that we could survive here and they gave us hope that the future could be even better than the past. We wanted to give something back to you. With all my heart, I want this small hope chest to return to you even a small part of the hope and faith you have given to us.”

Mother held the wooden chest in her lap and gently ran her finger over the etched wood. A tender smile curved her lips and teardrops filled her eyes and slowly rolled down her cheeks.

She finally opened the lid. Nestled securely in the red velvet lining was a crystal figurine–which I had not yet seen. She reached carefully into the golden chest and brought out a glittering angel. Her hands seemed to glow from the radiance of the angel.

Mrs. Nie stared deeply into my mother’s eyes. Her voice was quiet. “Ralph is happy and well, Charlotte. I came to tell you so you won’t worry about him anymore. Accept this small gift from me, for you have been my angel. God bless you.”

Tears filled everyone’s eyes. Mother handed the angel to my father, who held it up then gave it to Zella. Whereas my angel was fragile and ethereal, this angel radiated strength and vitality. It was the figure of a young man with short, windswept hair. For an instant as I in turn lifted him up and turned him to catch the light, his hair took on a red glow and I was sure I saw a sparkle of blue in his eyes.

We all turned to ask Mrs. Nie about this angel but she was gone. Father went searching outside for her, but came back having found no trace.

I walked over to my mother and gently handed her the angel. Her face was peaceful. Then I went to the mantle above the fireplace and gently lifted down the angel Mrs. Nie had given to me. As I held her up to the firelight, I saw and felt her glow, from the firelight, through the angel, and into my heart. I knew then that I had a guardian angel, just as Mother now had one. And I thought I knew who it was.

Three days later the storm blew itself out and the next day Father hooked the team up to the plow and started clearing roads. I packed two little buckets with the best food we had in the pantry, then we all jumped into the sleigh. Soon we reached the Nies’ house and Mr. Nie hobbled out onto the porch, his steps slow and faltering. Mother and Father rushed to ask what was wrong.

It was then that we learned how ill Mrs. Nie had been when the storm started, how she had quickly weakened. With a shaking voice, Mr. Nie told how she had smiled at him before she died, told him how much she loved him, and promised to return when it was his time to come to the other side. Then she closed her eyes and was gone.

“Oh, no,” my mother cried in anguish, “I knew she shouldn’t have come to our home during the storm Christmas Eve.”

 “Mama couldn’t have, Mrs. Ferry,” Mr. Nie had a strange look on his face as he gazed around at each of us. “She couldn’t have come to your house Christmas Eve because she…” his voice wavered and he paused to swallow a couple of times, “It…it couldn’t have been Christmas Eve…because… because she passed away…early that afternoon.”

After that day, my mother never worried about Ralph again. She put the lock of Ralph’s hair into the cedar hope chest along with the beautiful boy angel. Every once in a while, I would see her open the box and take the angel out. She would hold him up to the light and a gentle smile would lift her face, for she too now had a guardian angel.  

100 Rolls of Wrapping Paper

By Ruth Magleby

Sometimes my children ask me why I keep a hundred rolls of Christmas wrapping paper under my bed. I explain to them that I have a phobia about wrapping paper. They just laugh at me, but that laughter is a good thing in this house.

It was several Christmas Eves ago that caused me to develop the phobia. My husband, James, and I were students living at University Village. Finals were over, so we could breathe a weary sigh and begin wrapping for the children, ages 2 to 13. At 10:30 p.m. they were finally asleep thanks to a dose of cough syrup.

We tiptoed into our bedroom, where I just assumed we had enough leftover paper from last year. But as we searched under the bed, in the closets, desk, and through the linen cupboard, it dawned on us . . . we had NO PAPER! Not Christmas, not birthday, not wedding, NONE, NO PAPER!

Not to panic. The one-stop shopping store on south State Street was open till midnight for the holidays, so if we hurried, although we would be tired, everything would be just fine. Or so we thought until we pulled our Datsun into the dark, empty parking lot at midnight. Always the optimist, James drove to a miniature market in Murray. Relief . . . they were open 24 hours a day, 365 days a year!

But the clerk laughed and informed us that "none of the all-night markets carried wrapping paper." Outside the snow began to drop softly, and the giant flakes stuck to the frozen pavement as we walked hand in hand to the newspaper machine. "Of course, Santa wraps with newspaper . . . he is the ultimate recycler," we would convince the children.

But the yellow news box was as empty as the black space under our bed had been. A frayed man leaned against it, stomping his feet to keep them warm. We looked into each other's desperate eyes. His breath echoed alcohol, mine worry as we softly spoke "Merry Christmas." James handed him the coins intended for the newspaper, and we again began to drive on the now icy roads. And it was now that we found time to talk, really talk to each other for the first time since autumn quarter.

As we neared the campus area we bought two cans of cola from the red machine that never closes, and I wondered if I should drink it so late. I would later wish I had four cans.

I don't know if it was the caffeine or the panic, but we began to communicate as we had not done before. We wondered where we would be in 10 years. We imagined the lives of our children and made wonderful plans and shared our hopes for them. We dreamed of the home we would someday build after we graduated.

We talked briefly about the strange muscle aches James was having and vowed to see a specialist when we could afford it. As our bald tires skidded we chose the perfect vehicle we would someday own. It was nearly 2 a.m. when we noticed the Crystal Palace Market still had lights on. "Nope, sold the last roll of Christmas paper yesterday," the clerk spoke.

And then . . . like a vision . . . I had a shining idea! TIN FOIL!!! I reached for the last box on the shelf with the stick matches and now held in my arms ONE HUNDRED SQUARE FEET OF HEAVY-DUTY FOIL. At last, a true Christmas miracle, I thought, and could hardly contain my gratitude as I walked it to the counter.

Then, out of nowhere, a hysterical woman in a bathrobe charged through the front door. She was acting half crazy, screaming and crying something about Christmas dinner, some turkey she "had to have in the oven by 6 a.m. or the day would be ruined." I clutched the box of foil closer to me when she cried that she was "OUT OF FOIL" and had been searching all night! As James pried my fingers from the box he spoke to her: "I hope your family appreciates how much trouble you go to for Christmas dinner." Then he handed her the box.

For a half second I wanted to strangle him for giving her the last box of tin foil in the entire Salt Lake Valley. But he reached into the red box on the counter and bought me a 25 cent CORDIAL cherry chocolate, and when the woman turned before leaving to say, "God bless you both," I forgave him.

The snow moaned under our tires as the Datsun drove itself back to the parking lot of our apartment, where we discussed the absurdity of our dilemma. We sat and looked at the huge medical research buildings on the east mountainside, as we held each other and held each other's worries, as the moon cast perfect shadows from the skeleton trees.

At 4 a.m., because we were so tired, or desperate, or maybe, just maybe, because we both loved our children so much, we came up with one absolutely crazy idea. DUMPSTER DIVING! Of course, all of those fancy new buildings must have given employee parties. Somewhere behind one of them in the trash bin there must be some discarded paper.

As we climbed inside the giant steel bin, I was glad the air was so frozen. For I could hardly smell the discarded shrimp, filet mignon and cheesecake, and wondered if we would ever dine like this even if we could afford it. But for now, I was happy! Here in this garbage can we had just found the silver mine of all corporate Christmas parties!!! PAPER! More kinds of paper than I had ever imagined. Embossed paper, tissue paper, shiny paper, glitter and reindeer paper. And wads and wads of barely creased foil paper. And since Santa was the "ultimate recycler," I felt no shame for taking this home.

As the sun cast pink streaks across the newly white valley we wrapped the last gift, indulged in a deluxe cola, sat our dazed bodies upright on the couch waiting for the children to waken.

Neither of us knew the future as we talked that night; nobody does. It seems we did not find the time again to talk alone. To talk about one of us going on without the other, or raising the children alone. But all of life is unpredictable . . . and sometimes what we believe are our hardest times may later become cherished memories.

That Christmas Eve would turn out to be one of the last we would spend together, as my husband died from a progressive muscle disease. And each December 24, I try to remind myself, "That which is worth most, costs nothing."

And although I will always cherish the unwrapped gifts we gave each other during that long night . . . I STILL KEEP 100 ROLLS OF WRAPPING PAPER UNDER MY BED!

 

Substitute Santa

by Jay Frankston

There's nothing so beautiful as a child's dream of Santa Claus. I know, I often had that dream. But I was Jewish and we didn't celebrate Christmas. It was everyone else's holiday and I felt left out -- like a big party I wasn't invited to. It wasn't the toys I missed, it was Santa Claus and a Christmas tree.

So when I got married and had kids I decided to make up for it. I started with a seven-foot tree, all decked out with lights and tinsel, and a Star of David on top to soothe those whose Jewish feelings were frayed by the display and, for them, it was a Hanukkah bush. And it warmed my heart to see the glitter, because now the party was at my house and everyone was invited.

But something was missing, something big and round and jolly, with jingle bells and a “Ho! Ho! Ho!” So I bought a bolt of bright red cloth and strips of white fur and my wife made me a costume. Inflatable pillows rounded out my skinny frame, but no amount of makeup could turn my face into merry old Santa.

I went around looking at department store impersonators sitting on their thrones with children on their laps and flash-bulbs going off, and I wasn't satisfied with the way they looked either.

After much effort, I located a mask maker and he had just the thing for me, a rubberized Santa mask, complete with whiskers and flowing white hair. It was not the real thing but it looked genuine enough to live up to a child's dream of St. Nick.

When I tried it on, something happened. I looked in the mirror and there he was, big as life, the Santa of my childhood. There he was . . . and it was me. I felt like Santa, like I became Santa. My posture changed. I leaned back and pushed out my false stomach. My head tilted to the side and my voice got deeper and richer and a "MERRY CHRISTMAS, EVERYONE."

For two years I played Santa for my children to their mixed feelings of fright and delight and to my total enjoyment. And when the third year rolled around, the Santa in me had grown into a personality of his own and he needed more room than I had given him. So I sought to accommodate him by letting him do his thing for other children. I called up orphanages and children's hospitals and offered his services free. But, "We don't need Santa, we have all sorts of donations from foundations and . . . thank you for calling." And the Santa in me felt lonely and useless.

Then, one late November afternoon, I went to the mailbox on the corner of the street to mail a letter and saw this pretty little girl trying to reach for the slot. She was maybe six years old. "Mommy, are you sure Santa will get my letter?" she asked. "Well, you addressed it to Santa Claus, North Pole, so he should get it," the mother said and lifted her little girl so she could stuff the letter into the box. My mind began to whirl. All those thousands of children who wrote to Santa Claus at Christmas time, whatever became of their letters?

One phone call to the main post office answered my question. They told me that, as of the last week of November, an entire floor of the post office was needed to store those letters in huge sacks that came from different sections of the city.

The Santa in me went “Ho! Ho! Ho!” and we headed down to the post office. And there they were, thousands upon thousands of letters, with or without stamps, addressed to Santi Claus, or St. Nick, or Kris Kringle, scribbled on wrapping paper or neatly written on pretty stationary. And I rummaged through them and laughed. Most of them were gimme, gimme, gimme letters, like "I want a pair of roller skates, and a Nintendo, and a GI Joe, and a personal computer, and a small portable TV, and whatever else you can think of." Many of them had the price alongside each item . . . with or without sales tax.

Then there were the funny ones like: "Dear Santa, I've been a good boy all of last year, but if I don't get what I want, I'll be a bad boy all of next."

And I became a little flustered at the demands and the greed of so many spoiled children. But the Santa in me heard a voice from inside the mail sack and I continued going through the letters, one after the other, until I came upon one which jarred and unsettled me.

It was neatly written on plain white paper and it said: "Dear Santa, I hope you get my letter. I am eleven years old and I have two little brothers and a baby sister. My father died last year and my mother is sick. I know there are many who are poorer than we are and I want nothing for myself, but could you send us a blanket, cause mommy's cold at night." It was signed Suzy. And a chill went up my spine and the Santa in me cried, "I hear you Suzy, I hear you." And I dug deeper into those sacks and came up with another eight such letters, all of them calling out from the depth of poverty. I took them with me and went straight to the nearest Western Union office and sent each child a telegram: "GOT YOUR LETTER. WILL BE AT YOUR HOUSE ON CHRISTMAS DAY. WAIT FOR ME. SANTA." I knew I could not possibly fill the need of all those children and it wasn't my purpose to do so. But if I could bring them hope. If I could make them feel that their cries did not go unheard and that someone out there was listening . . . So I budgeted a sum of money and went out and bought toys. I wasn't content with the five-and-ten cent variety. I wanted something substantial, something these children could only dream of, like an electric train, or a microscope, or a huge doll of the kind they saw advertised on TV.

And on Christmas Day, I took out my sleigh and let Santa do his thing. Well, it wasn't exactly a sleigh, it was a car and my wife drove me around because with all those pillows and toys I barely managed to get in the back seat. It had graciously snowed the night before and the streets were thick with fresh powder. My first call took me to the outskirts of the city. The letter had been from a Peter Barsky and all it said was: "Dear Santa, I am ten years old and I am an only child. We've just moved to this house a few months ago and I have no friends yet. I'm not sad because I'm poor but because I'm lonely. I know you have many things to do and people to see and you probably have no time for me. So I don't ask you to come to my house or bring anything. But could you send me a letter so I know you exist." My telegram read:

"DEAR PETER, NOT ONLY DO I EXIST BUT I'LL BE THERE ON CHRISTMAS DAY. WAIT FOR ME. SANTA."

We spotted the house and drove past it and parked around the corner. Then Santa got out with his big bag of toys slung over his shoulder and tramped through the snow.

The house was wedged in between two tall buildings. The roof was of corrugated metal and it was more of a shack than a house. I walked through the gate, up the front steps and rang the bell. A man opened the door. He was in his undershirt and his stomach bulged out of his pants. "Bojemoy" he exclaimed in astonishment. That's Polish, by the way, and his hand went to his face. "P-p-please . . ." he stuttered, "p-please . . . de boy . . . de boy . . . at mass . . . church. I go get him. Please, please wait." And he threw a coat over his bare shoulders and, assured that I would wait, he ran down the street in the snow.

So I stood in front of the house feeling good, and on the opposite side of the street was this other shack, and through the window I could see these shiny little black faces peering at me and waving. Then the door opened shyly and some voices called out to me "Hya Santa" . . . "Hya Santa".

And I “Ho! Ho! Hoed” my way over there and this woman asked if I would come in and I did. And there were these five young kids from one to seven years old. And I sat and spoke to them of Santa and the spirit of love which is the spirit of Christmas.

Then, since they were not on my list, but assuming from the torn Christmas wrappings that they had gotten their presents, I asked if they liked what Santa had brought them during the night. And each in turn thanked me for . . . the woolen socks, and the sweater, and the warm new underwear.

And I looked at them and asked: "Didn't I bring you kids any toys?" And they shook their heads sadly. "Ho! Ho! Ho! I slipped up," I said "We'll have to fix that." I told them to wait, I'd be back in a few minutes, then trudged heavily through the snow to the corner. And when I was out of their sight, I ran as fast as I could to the car. We had extra toys in the trunk and my wife quickly filled up the bag, and I trod back to the house and gave each child a brand-new toy. There was joy and laughter and the woman asked if she could take a picture of Santa with the kids and I said, sure, why not?

And when Santa got ready to leave, I noticed that this five-year-old little girl was crying. She was as cute as a button. I bent down and asked her "What's the matter, child?" And she sobbed, "Oh! Santa, I'm so happy." And the tears rolled from my eyes under the rubber mask.

As I stepped out on the street, "Pan, pan, proche . . . please come . . . come," I heard this man Barsky across the way. And Santa crossed and walked into the house. The boy Peter just stood there and looked at me. "You came," he said. "I wrote and . . . you came". He turned to his parents. "I wrote . . . and he came." And he repeated it over and over again. "I wrote . . . and he came." And when he recovered, I spoke with him about loneliness and friendship, and gave him a chemistry set, which seemed to be what he would go for, and a basketball. And he thanked me profusely. And his mother, a heavy-set Slavic-looking woman, asked something of her husband in Polish. My parents were Polish so I speak a little and understand a lot. "From the North Pole," I said in Polish. She looked at me in astonishment. "You speak Polish?" she asked. "Of course," I said. "Santa speaks all languages." And I left them in joy and wonder.

And I did this for twelve years, going through the letters to Santa at the post office, listening for the cries of children muffled in unopened envelopes.

In time, I learned all that Santa has to know to handle any situation. Like the big kid who would stop Santa on the street and ask: "Hey, Santa, where's your sleigh?" And I'd say, "How old are you, son?" And he'd say, "Thirteen." And I'd say, "Well, you're a big fellow and you ought to know better. Santa used to come in a sleigh many years ago, but these are modern times. I come in a car now." And I'd hop in the back seat and my wife would drive off.

Or the kid who would look at me closely and come out with, "That's a mask," pointing a finger. And you never lie to children so I'd say, "Sure, son, of course. If everybody knew what Santa really looks like they'd bother me all year long and I couldn't get my things ready for Christmas."

Or the mother who would whisper so her young son couldn't hear, "Where do you come from?" I'd turn to the child and say, "Your mom wants to know where I come from, Willy." And he'd say, "From the North Pole, Mommy," with absolute certainty. And she'd nudge me and whisper, "You don't understand. Who sent you? I mean, how do you come to this house?" I'd turn to the boy and say, "Hey, Willy, your mom wants to know why I came to see you." And he'd say, "Cause I wrote him a letter, Mommy." And I'd pull out the letter and she knows she mailed it, and she's confused and bewildered and I'd leave her like that.

As time went on, the word got out about Santa Claus and me, and I insisted on anonymity, but toy manufacturers would send me huge cartons of toys as a contribution to the Christmas spirit. So I started with 18 or 20 children and wound up with 120, door to door, from one end of the city to the other, from Christmas Eve through Christmas Day.

And on my last call, a number of years ago, I knew there were four children in the family and I came prepared. The house was small and sparsely furnished. The kids had been waiting all day, staring at the telegram and repeating to their skeptical mother, "He'll come, Mommy, he'll come." And as I rang the doorbell the house lit up with joy and laughter and "He's here . . . he's here!" And the door swings open and they all reach for my hands and hold on. "Hya, Santa . . . Hya, Santa. We just knew you'd come."

And these poor kids are all beaming with happiness. And I take each one of them on my lap and speak to them of rainbows and snowflakes, and tell them stories of hope and waiting, and give them each a toy.

And all the while there's this fifth child standing in the corner, a cute little girl with blond hair and blue eyes. And when I'm through with the others, I turn to her and say: "You're not part of this family are you?" 

And she shakes her head sadly and whispers, "No."

"Come closer, child," I say, and she comes a little closer. "What's your name?" I ask. 

"Lisa." 

"How old are you?" 

"Seven." 

"Come, sit on my lap," and she hesitates but she comes over and I lift her up and sit her on my lap. "Did you get any toys for Christmas?" I ask. 

"No," she says with puckered lips. 

So I take out this big beautiful doll and, "Here, do you want this doll?" 

"No," she says. And she leans over to me and whispers in my ear, "I'm Jewish." 

And I nudge her and whisper in her ear, "I'm Jewish too. Do you want this doll?" And she's grinning from ear to ear and nods with wanting and desire, and takes the doll and hugs it and runs out.

It's been a long time since I last put on my Santa suit. But I feel that Santa has lived with me and given me a great deal of happiness all those years. And now, when Christmas rolls around, he comes out of hiding long enough to say, "Ho! Ho! Ho! A Merry Christmas to you, my friend."

And I say to you now, “MERRY CHRISTMAS MY FRIENDS.”  

Mary’s Christmas Miracle

by Mary Thomas Jeppson 

(as told to Marian Jeppson Walker)

This Christmas Story has been compiled by Marian Jeppson Walker from memories of hearing the story told by her mother, Mary Thomas Jeppson. It has been over twenty years (in 1985) since anyone has heard the story from her lips, so memories of details have grown dim. However, the spirit of the story remains strong.

Fr many of her last years, Mary Jeppson was asked by many Ward Relief Societies to come and retell her beautiful true Christmas Story. The retelling of this story was always an emotional drain on her but an emotional uplift for all of those who were privileged to hear her tell the story.

It was December of 1927 in the remote prairie town of Hillspring, Alberta, Canada. A young mother by the name of Mary was getting her six small children ready for bed. Her heart was so full of sorrow and concern that she felt it would surely break-and yet, she felt it was too laden down with grief to even have a chance to break. It was Christmas Eve, and all the children except for the oldest, Ellen, age ten, were dancing around excited to hang their socks for Santa to come.

Ellen sat very subdued and sullen over in the corner of the cold, small, two-room house. She felt her mother was cruel and wrong to let the children build up their hopes and excitement for Santa to come, because actually there would be no Santa. There was nothing to fill the socks. There would only be a little mush for breakfast. There was very little wheat and corn left. The winter had just started and already it was cold and harsh.  The milk cow had died last week from starvation and harsh weather conditions.  The last two or three chickens had stopped laying eggs about a month ago.

Times were hard, and Ellen, being the oldest, had too much responsibility put on her thin young shoulders. She had become very cynical, and childhood hopes and dreams and excitements had to be put out of mind much too early.

Mary helped each one of her children hang a little darned and mended sock. She couldn't persuade Ellen to hang one, however. All Ellen could say was "Mom, don't do this. Don't pretend." 

After the socks had been hung, Mary had read the Christmas story from the Bible to the children and then recited a few Christmas poems to them from memory - memories of her own happy childhood living in the United States. She was next to the youngest of a very large and loving family. Her mother and father, although pioneers in a remote area of Idaho, made life - and especially Christmas - very happy, loving and warm times.

As the children went to bed, everyone except Ellen had visions of sugarplums dancing through their heads. Ellen turned to her mother with one last plea, "Mom, tell them tonight. Let them know tonight that there's not going to be anything there in the morning for them. Don't let them go to bed thinking that they are going to be able to get up and have some surprises. They'll just be disappointed."

But Mary turned to her daughter, kissed her goodnight and whispered, "I can't Ellen. Don't ask me why. I just can't tell them that." It was midnight now. The children had been asleep for hours, and Mary's husband Leland had gone to bed-feeling like a broken man, like he had failed his family completely.

Mary sat by the dying fire reading from the Bible, the story of Christmas over and over again. Her mind drifted off to think about her plight here in this God-forsaken land of ice and snow. It was the beginning of the depression, and her husband had heard wondrous stories about opportunities in Canada. He'd heard that anyone could come to Canada, homestead some land, and if he had a good team of horses, could hire out to clear other people's land. There would be good money to be made. He'd heard that the opportunities where unlimited.

After two years of not being able to find work in the United States and after a flood had destroyed their small home in Willard, Utah, he had moved his family to Canada. But when they arrived they found that they were five or six years too late to cash in on the great opportunities that they had heard about. They did homestead a small piece of land, however. But spring had come very late for the last two years and winter had come very early. They had been left with only part of July and part of August for a growing season, and all of their crops had frozen and failed for two years in a row.

In October, Mary had received a letter from her family in Idaho. Her sisters living in Malad and Pleasant View had written to her and told her that they knew times were very hard for her and although the depression was causing many hardships for themselves, they wanted to know what they could do to help and what they could send their family for Christmas.

Mary hadn't written back to them real soon. In fact, it was quite a long time before she did write back. She had too much pride to tell them how poor and destitute the family really was. Finally, in November, seeing that things were not going to get any better, in desperation she had written.

Mary had requested only necessities. She had told them how desperately they needed food, especially wheat, yeast, flour and some cornmeal. She related to them how long it had been since she had been able to bake a cake or cookies because they had no molasses or honey and of course no sugar. It had been a year since they'd had any salt to use on their food. She also added that if they could ship just a little bit of coal, it would help because it was so cold there, and their fuel was almost down to nothing. She requested some old used quilts. All of her own had worn thin and were full of holes, and they could not keep their children warm. Also, she requested some old worn out pants that she could use to cut up for patches to re-patch the pants that her boys were wearing. She told them of their desperate need for socks and shoes and gloves and warm hats and coats. 

At the very end of her letter she stated, "If you could just find a dress that someone has outgrown that I could make over to fit Ellen, please send that too. She is such a little old lady for such a young girl. She worries about the family and about our needs and she carries the worries for the family on her shoulders. She has only one dress that she wears all the time, and it is patched and faded. She's outgrown it, and I would like to fix-up something that is nicer for her.”

The week before Christmas had found LeLand hitching up the horse to the sleigh and making the three-hour round trip from Hillspring into the town of Cardston every day to check at the train station and at the post office to see if a package had come for the family from Idaho. Each day he would receive the same disappointing answer.

Finally, on the day of Christmas Eve, he left early in the morning from Hillspring and went into Cardston and sat around waiting for the one daily train and checking at the post office to see if the box had come from Idaho. He left at noon, however, to return home to Hillspring before dark, and he left without a package. He had to go home and tell Mary that maybe it would arrive the day after Christmas or sometime next week, but it hadn't made it before Christmas.

Mary woke up out of her reminiscing sleep with a chill. The old clock on the wall showed that it was 3:30 a.m. The fire in the old stove was all but out. She decided to put a little more fuel into the stove so that it wouldn't take so long to start in the morning so that she would be able to cook the last little bit of wheat that she had for breakfast. She looked up at the sad little mended socks till hanging empty and felt her heart was hanging just as empty. 

Outside the wind was blowing about seventy miles per hour and the snowstorm had intensified. After she had added a few lumps of coal to the fire, she was about to put out the lantern and go to bed for a few hours when suddenly there was a knock on the door.

Mary opened the door to find a man standing there, and for all the world he looked exactly like what she would expect Santa himself to look like. He was covered with frozen snow and ice. He had a long beard and it was white from the snow. His hat, his gloves, his boots were all white, and for a moment she was startled into believing that Santa had really come and knocked on the door.

It was the mailman from Cardston. He belonged to the Church, and knew the plight of the family. He told her he knew of their waiting for the package from Idaho and he knew there would be no Christmas without it. That evening as he was finishing up a long day of delivering mail all around the area of Cardston, he was glad to be in. His horse was exhausted and cold. It was one of the worst days they had so far that year with the blizzard and the cold wind and he was very anxious to put his horse in the barn, park his sleigh and go home and spend Christmas Eve with his family.

Just after he got in and put the horse away, someone from the train station came up to him and told him that ten large crates had arrived from the States for a Jeppson family. It was only about four in the afternoon, but it was already dark. The storm was getting worse. The mailman told the man from the train station it was just too late. There wasn't anything he could do about it. He did say that the day after Christmas, though, he would see that those crates did get to the Jeppson's.

He went home and was very disturbed. He talked to his wife about it, and together they decided that the only thing he could do was to take the crates out to the Jeppson's little isolated farmhouse in Hillspring. He would find someone that would let him borrow a fresh horse and also borrow a sleigh with sharp running edges on it.

After he finished telling Mary about his decision to come, he brought the crates into the house. Mary told him to go over by the stove to get warm and thaw out. She took his horse to the barn and when she looked at the poor animal, she knew there was no way that horse could make the trip back to Cardston that night. She went back into the house and asked him if he wouldn't just stay until morning to let himself and the horse have a chance to rest.

He told her no, that it had taken him about eight hours to make the trip that could usually be made in about an hour and a half, and he said that if he were to leave now and go back, he would still be able to spend Christmas afternoon with his family.

Mary reminded him of the condition of the horse. She said that it had icicles hanging from its nose, mouth and ears, and that there was no way that the horse could make it back. But he still insisted on going, so Mary told him that she would harness up their horse because it was in a lot better condition to make the trip back.

Then she went in and got some of Leland's clothes and had the mailman take off his wet frozen clothes and put dry ones on. While he was doing that she went back out to the barn and harnessed up their horse. Back in the house again she fed him what warm food she could muster up.

The mailman then headed back to town. It had taken him eight hours to get there because of the severity of the storm. By this time it was about 4:30 and going on 5:00 in the morning. He probably wouldn't get back till noon or after if he left now. Mary had thanked him as best she could, but she always said there just were not words enough to express her thanks. After all, how do you thank a miracle, and a Christmas miracle at that?

As soon as he left, Mary began to unpack the crates. She had only an hour to get ready before the children would wake up. At the top of one of the crates she found a letter from her sisters. They told her that quilting bees had been held all over Malad Valley, and from these, six thick, warm, beautiful quilts had been made to send up to them. They told her of the many women who had sewn shirts for the boys and dresses for the girls, and of the others who had knitted the warm gloves and hats.

The donation of socks and shoes had come from people from miles around. The Relief Society had even held a bizarre to raise the money to buy the coats, and all the sisters and nieces and cousins and aunts and uncles from all around got together to bake the breads and make the candy to send. There was even a crate half full of beef that had been cured and packed so that it could be shipped, and low and behold there were three slabs of bacon and also two hams.

The closing of the letters had said, "We hope you have a Merry Christmas, and thank you so much for making our Christmas the best one we've ever had!"

When Mary's family awoke that Christmas morning, they awoke to what to them was a miracle. Bacon was sizzling on the stove; hot muffins were ready to come out of the oven. There were bottles and jars of jams and jelly and canned fruit the younger children had never seen before in their lives, and they weren't even sure what it was. But oh, was it good!

Every sock that was hanging was stuffed full! Homemade taffy, fudge, divinity and dried fruit of every kind were in the socks, as well as cookies like the children had never seen. They weren't even sure what to call them.

Later, Mary and LeLand were to find tucked in each toe of socks that had been sent for them, a dollar or two with a little note that the money was to be used to buy coal and fuel for the rest of the winter and to buy oats and wheat to feed the animals. 

For each boy, there was a bag of marbles, and each girl had a little rag doll made just for her. But best of all and the most wonderful miracle occurred when Ellen, the very last to get up, rubbed her eyes in disbelief as she looked at the spot where her sock was supposed to have been hung the night before. Hanging there was a beautiful red Christmas dress, trimmed with white and green satin ribbons.

Ellen turned around, walked back to her bed and laid back down, thinking it had to be a dream. But in only a moment she opened her eyes again and came back out to the joy of the most wonderful Christmas ever, for that morning with the Christmas dress for Ellen, a childhood had been brought back, a childhood of hopes and dreams and Santa and the miracle of Christmas.  

 A Beautiful Silver Star

by Ivan T. Anderson

When the Allied forces made their big push into Germany, it was the duty of my military police battalion to take prisoners from the front lines into crudely constructed stockades. I shall never forget December 24, 1944 and the German prisoner of war who helped to make it more memorable for me.

It was a bitter cold night and I found myself on duty helping to guard more than twelve hundred German prisoners. To say we were a homesick group of men would be an understatement. The fact that is was Christmas Eve only added to our depression. One of our company, a man from the Smoky Mountains of Tennessee, stopped blowing on his hands long enough to say, “What a cold, miserable Christmas! Just because we are stuck out here doesn’t mean we can’t do something about it. I’m going out and find a tree.”

“Forget it!” another M.P. shouted. “There are no trees around here; besides, we haven’t anything to decorate with anyway.”

Not to be discouraged, Smoky went into the darkness and later returned with a bedraggled specimen.

“You call that thing a tree?” our heckler continued. “In Texas, we’d plow that under for a bush.”

With a positive attitude, Smoky began to decorate his tree with ornaments made from gum wrappers, candy wrappers, etc. Several of the men not stationed directly at the stockade began to help our zealous friend with his seemingly impossible task. As we worked, I suddenly heard a voice calling from the stockade, “American, American.” Turning toward the compound, I saw a German prisoner with one hand extended through the barbed wire. With his other hand, he was motioning toward me. I quickly threw a shell into the chamber of my rifle and approached him with caution.

What I saw in his hand astounded me. This prisoner had made a beautiful silver star entirely from gum foil that was a work of art. He placed the star in my hand and motioned to the top of our tree. Hoping he spoke some English, I said, “This star has such detail, are you a professional artist?” By his puzzled expression it was obvious he spoke no more English than I spoke German, so I took his contribution over and placed it atop our tree.

“Well, I’ll be!” the heckler began again. “I hate to admit this, but that bush is beginning to look like a real tree. Guess I should have kept my mouth shut, eh, Smoky?” (A loud cheer of agreement resounded from all of the men.)

As we completed our tree, we began singing Christmas carols, and I noticed several of the prisoners joined in on “Silent Night”. The last strains were fading into the night when I heard the same voice call, “American”.

This time the prisoner had both hands extended through the barbed wire. Again, I approached with caution, rifle ready, and again I was amazed at what he held in his hands. This German sculptor had made intricate figures of Joseph, Mary, and the Christ Child. He pointed under the tree as he handed me his detailed work. I nodded my thanks and carefully placed the delicate figures where he had indicated.

As I placed the tiny figure of the Christ Child, made from a stick base and professionally covered with foil, the light from our fire actually seemed to give it a heavenly glow. I thought of how far we had strayed from the teachings of Jesus and felt tears sting my eyes.

Looking at the stockade, I saw that the prisoner was still by the barbed wire, so I hurried back, smiled, and warmly shook his hand. He returned my smile and the firelight caught the tears that were in his eyes.

Since the close of World War II, I have thought of this German prisoner of war numerous times. Our meeting was brief; we were two ships that passed in the night, and yet I feel this man would agree that our only hope for lasting world peace would be a return to the teachings of the tiny figure he so beautifully molded that cold December night. One thing is certain: If we love the Lord, we also have a genuine concern for all mankind - the two are synonymous.